What Once Was Lost
by Engxty Piksy
Summary: 'Dean blames himself for losing his brother. Sam blames himself for never being good enough. Maybe, they'll find peace with each other, someday.' AU story in which Sam and Dean didn't grow up together.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: My first story in this fandom. Review please! :)**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own supernatural.**_

His parents loved him. He was sure of that. After all, parents were _supposed_ to love their children, right? No matter how screwed up the children are. That's why he was sure that his parents did love him.

Sure, they beat him up a little. But that was only because there was wrong with _him_, not them. It was his fault. Just like his father always said; he was worthless, useless and a sorry excuse for a son. His parents were _forced_ to punish him because of his own faults. It wasn't their fault that he was a screw up. So, he took all the beatings and verbal abuse willingly, without any complaint. Because he knew that he deserved it. All of it. Even the 'special' punishment that his dad had set up for him.

How long had it been since he'd been locked up, anyways? He was starting to feel light headed from lack of food and water. Not that he was allowed to have a lot of food to begin with, but he would usually have the luxury of a toast and half a glass of water after two days. Maybe they were so angry with him now that they didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore. Maybe they've finally decided he was a lost cause. He wasn't surprised, really. He already knew that he was a hopeless case. No matter what, he could never seem to satisfy them. He always managed to somehow screw up every single thing. It doesn't matter anymore, anyways. Nothing does. He's gonna die down there in that basement, all alone.

* * *

Six days. Six long days without food or water or light or anything, really. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake now. Not that he really cared anymore. No, he wasn't even in that room anymore. He was safely in that little corner he had created for himself. The corner that he went to whenever reality became too much for him to handle, whenever his father's 'special' punishments were being dished out to him. That quiet, safe corner in the recess of his mind. He really liked that place. It was the only thing in his life that was all his.

* * *

It had been 8 days now –somehow, he still managed to keep count -eight hard days of wishing for it to end soon. Eight days of praying for death- though he knew that he didn't deserve that luxury, not after all he'd done.

* * *

It was the 9th day that he heard it. A door. Smashed open so hard that the sound reached him even in his quiet place. Dimly, he realized that it was the back door of the house. A tiny sparkle of hope crept in his mind. Maybe, they had decided that they wanted him after all. Maybe they had come to save him. But, as quickly as that hope had come, it was stomped on by him. After all, who would anything to do with him now? If they were really back, it was probably to check if their plan had worked out or not; whether he was dead like they wanted or not. Guess he couldn't even do that right. He managed to disappoint them again. Story of his life.

**_A/N: I would love to hear from you guys. Let me know if I should continue or not. Thank you!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here's the 2nd chapter. Thanks to everyone reviewed, favourited and added my story to your alerts!**

**Disclamer: Don't own them.**

Demons he got, but people were crazy.

That was the thought running through the young hunter's head as he walked into the motel room. He thought there was a hunt here but it turned out to be a big bust. There was nothing supernatural going on in that town at all. Just a case of a crazy lunatic who was into kidnapping and torturing little kids before burning them to a crisp. Like he said; people were crazy!

He'd come back to his room with the intention of packing up and leaving since there wasn't a hint here, but something was nagging at the back of his mind. He knew he should leave the psycho to the authorities but after twenty years of ongoing investigation with next to zero leads, he wouldn't bet on them finding the mad man anytime soon. Normally that still wouldn't stop him from getting the hell out of dodge, but it was the fact that these were little kids, between ages of 5 and 7, that were getting snatched. Cases involving kids always got to him and this one hit dangerously close to home for him. No matter how hard he tried not to, whenever he thought of those poor kids, the image of a shaggy haired, wide-eyed face of a five year old came to his mind.

His little brother. The one he'd sworn to protect with his life. The one person who was the reason for his living. Who'd been snatched from him when he a kid himself, just ten years old. So much time had passed but the thought of his baby brother still caused his breath to hitch and his chest to get clinched with pain. He still hadn't forgiven himself for losing his brother; it had been his carelessness that was the cause of Sammy getting grabbed by some yahoo. God only knew if he was still alive somewhere.

So, it was the thought of Sam that made him stay and do a little investigating of his own. The first kid that had been reported missing had been taken 17 years ago and a total of 20 kids had been taken by now. Cops had found 18 bodies after the killer was done with them, burned so badly that they couldn't even be identified.

After only two days of research and a few phone calls to his 'resourceful' contacts, Dean had a pretty good lead on his hands. He was positive that was where the kids were being kept. He had a brief thought about giving an anonymous tip to the cops with the address, but considering what a great job they had done with the case so far, he decided against it.

The next day, he was at the quaint little house on the outskirts of town. He had to double check the address; the house looked absolutely innocent on the outside. Also, it was far enough away from the town border that no one would disturb the people living there. Perfect disguise for holding and torturing little kids.

Today must be his lucky day; no one seemed to be home. Not wanting to risk any unsuspecting passer-by to catch him, he walked around the house to the back door. Cursing when he realized that he has forgotten his lock picking set back at the motel, he resorted to kicking the door open. Pulling his gun out quickly, he marched inside.

As suspected, no one was inside the house. After thoroughly checking everywhere, he spotted a door in the bedroom. It was partially hidden by a bookcase. Pushing the bookcase aside, he saw that it was a metal door padlocked with a chain. Stepping back, he fired at the rusty lock and opened the door. Cringing at the screeching noise the door made, he turned his flash-light on and noticed a long staircase leading down. With apprehension churning in his gut, he went down the steps.

**A/N: Lemme know what you think! **

**Until next time.**

**Piksy out!**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Here's the third chapter.**_

_**A BIG thank you to reannablue, rosebudgirl, souless666, twinklingeyes07, , and the 4 guest reviewers!**_

_**Also, thanks to everyone who added this story to their favourites and alerts!**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own. Probably never will.**_

* * *

That was _so_ not what he'd expected.

Sure, he knew that the man was a sick bastard who got kicks out of torturing kids, but he still hadn't expected him to be this bad.

The staircase led to a big basement of some sort, stacked with packing boxes and some other junk at one side. On the other side, a he could just make out a chain looped through a bar, leading down to a bundle of some kind. Only when he got closer did he realize that the bundle was a person, a boy, in his early twenties at the most, clad in nothing but boxers, lying curled up on his side. Swearing, he kneeled beside the guy, looking him over for any obvious injuries. His wrists and ankles had steel manacles around them and a closer inspection revealed that the manacles had spikes on the inside, which were digging into the flesh. Dried blood was encrusted on the wrists and ankles and more blood was oozing out because of the violent shivering that had overtaken the boy. Putting a hand on his neck, he let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding at feeling the slow but steady thump beneath his fingers. After briefly trying to wake him up and failing, Dean set about examining the chains, looking for a weak link. Finding one, he quickly gave a hard tug and the chain broke, slipping off the bar and falling to the floor.

Mentally slapping himself again for forgetting his lock pick set at the motel, he left the manacles to deal with later, and after another futile attempt to rouse the living dead, hefted up the man on his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Surprisingly, -or not surprisingly, considering where he had been for God knows how long- he was extremely light and Dean had no problem climbing the staircase, putting him into the car and taking him into the motel room when he got there.

Setting his charge down gently on the bed, he set about looking for his lock picks and quickly unlocked the manacles, prying them out of the flesh carefully. Fresh blood immediately started oozing out to join the already copious amounts of dried blood. Grabbing the first aid kit from his duffel, he started the task of cleaning the numerous wounds on the guy's wrists and ankles.

It was only after he was done playing nursemaid that he stopped to think about what the hell he was doing. Here he was, being a personal nurse to a random stranger when he could just as easily have left him at a hospital. Hell, he could even take him to a hospital right now. Something just wouldn't let him.

Grumbling, he settled down into the chair he'd dragged closer to the bed before, waiting for sleeping beauty to wake up.

Waiting quickly got boring, and having nothing to occupy himself with –the TV in this crappy motel room was broken- he found himself staring at his new roommate and it was only when he had spent a good ten minutes doing so, did he realize that he was comparing the guy's looks to that of Sam. His shaggy hair, that kicked puppy expression he was wearing even in sleep and the way he was a restless sleeper, _every single thing _was unnervingly similar to Sam . No question, this man, whoever he was, looked a lot like what Sam would have looked now if he was….no, he wasn't going there. No. Sam was alive. He had to be.

A moan interrupted his thoughts. Startled, he looked up to find blue green eyes filled with fear staring back at him.

_God, even the eyes were exactly like Sammy's were._

* * *

**_A/N: Lemme know what you think!_**

**_Until next time._**

**_Piksy Out!_**


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: Here's the next chapter. It's extra long. :D_**

**_A HUGE thank you to all the people who reviewed, favourited or added this fic to their alerts. You guys rock! Seriously! :D_**

**_All mistakes are mine._**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own. Root cause of my depression._**

* * *

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Dean scrambled for something to say. But as quickly as they had opened, the man's eyes slid shut again, face going lax in sleep, leaving Dean standing there with his mouth half open. Composing himself, he put a hand to the man's neck, once again breathing a sigh of relief at the steady thump.

Dropping down into the chair again, Dean wondered what exactly had happened to the man to leave him in such a condition. He looked extremely pale and malnourished, his ribs poking out of his chest painfully, at least three of which seemed to be cracked, judging by the way the man was holding himself even in sleep. Bruises decorated his whole body, the most vivid ones being on his abdomen and inner thighs.

Aside from the injuries on his wrists and ankles that he had cleaned before, there was dried blood on his forehead, just above his right eye and when Dean brushed his bangs aside to get a better look, he could feel matted blood in the hair too, making it sticky and coloring it a darker shade of brown.

"What the hell happened to you, kid?" Dean muttered as he went to wet a washcloth to clean the dried blood.

Just as he put the washcloth to his forehead, the man immediately started thrashing around, letting loose pitiful whimpers and moans. Alarmed, Dean put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from moving around too much and agitating his already sore ribs. The man's eyes were still closed, though scrunched tightly, as he fought to get away from some invisible attacker.

Shaking the shoulder in his grasp, Dean tried to wake the kid up from whatever nightmare he was trapped in.

"Hey! Wake up, man. It's just a dream. C'mon. wake up!"

All his efforts proved futile, as the kid kept arching away from his grip, getting dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Dean could see his lips moving in desperate please to, "Please. Stop. No more. Let me go. It hurts. Please, stop. I don't want to. Don't make me do it, please!" All the while, not a sound save from those heart wrenching whimpers could be heard. Was this kid mute?

"Come on. Wake the hell up already, kid."

Dean was seriously getting worried now. The kid had stopped thrashing, finally, but that was of little relief. He was full out sobbing now, his breath hitching, ears streaming down his face, lips still uttering soundless pleas and Dean just didn't how to make it stop, damnit! He hated feeling this helpless, having to watch someone be tormented by demons that he couldn't see (and, therefore, couldn't kill).

God, he should have just left him in the damn hospital.

As a last ditch effort, he put a hand on the side of the kid's neck, while he brushed aside the bangs from his forehead with the other.

"C'mon, already. You're scaring me here, kid."

Surprisingly, at these gentle ministrations, the kid stilled, his soundless cries tapering off, face once again going lax and peaceful.

"Thank God. You had me really worried for a while, kid."

Patting the now sound asleep kid on the shoulder, Dean picked up the discarded washcloth from the floor, tentatively wiping the kid's face, carefully watching out for any signs of another attack. Thankfully, none came and he was able to wash the kid's face clean of the blood and tears without incident.

Sitting down on the chair again, he again wondered what had happened to the kid to reduce him to such a quivering mess.

It took another two hours of restless pacing, one-sided conversations and mindless rambling before the kid woke up for real. Dean was just about ready to hand over the kid to the qualified people, when a quiet moan interrupted his thought process. Waiting a moment to gauge whether the kid was actually back in the land of the living or not, Dean shot the kid a big grin.

"About time you decided to wake up, sleeping beauty."

* * *

He was warm. That was the first thing that registered into his hazy mind. The second: he was comfortable. Both things that he was never allowed to have, not without a price, at least. He didn't even remember the last time he'd slept anywhere other than the floor. Opening his heavy lids, the sight that met him wasn't the dark web infested ceiling of the basement. It was a plain white ceiling, spotless unlike the dirty stained one he was expecting to see.

Looking around slowly, he saw a man sitting on a chair beside the bed he was laying on, seemingly lost in thought. Who was that guy? Oh God, was he another one of his father's friends? Had he come to 'play' with him too? He didn't want to play right now, not that that ever mattered to anybody. But, he _really_ didn't want to do that right now. His whole body ached and he was hungry and thirsty and his throat felt dry and his ribs were sore and he couldn't breathe easily and _he didn't want to do that!_ Why can't they leave him alone, just this once? Can't they see that he's had enough?

fear creeping into his mind at the thought of what was about to happen, at what he was about to be forced to do, he felt his breathing quicken, causing his already bruised and sore ribs to ache even more, pulling a moan from his lips. He immediately stilled, expecting the worst –_they_ didn't like it when he made a sound without their permission- and prepared himself for the beating that would inevitably come.

The man, startled out of his thoughts, looked up at him, and for a moment stared intently at him. Apparently finding whatever it is he was searching for, he grinned at him, saying something that he couldn't hear over the sound of his pounding heart. Not knowing what the man had said or what he was supposed to be doing now caused his already high fear to rise up another notch and he quickly averted his eyes. His father's friends didn't like it when he looked them in the eye.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a hand coming toward him and , despite expecting it, he couldn't stop the sudden flinch that overtook his body and as if on autopilot, he sat up and jerked backwards, hitting his head on the headboard of the bed.

Terrified, he chanced another look at the man. To his surprise, he didn't look angry, just shocked as he held his hands out in front of his body non-threateningly.

"Hey, man. Calm down. I'm not gonna hurt you."

_Not gonna hurt you._ That's what _they _always said too, right before they caused him the worst pain. He was already hurting too much. He didn't want to hurt anymore. Why can't they just let him be? Why can't he get a free pass, just this one time?

* * *

His placating words did nothing to reassure the boy. Instead, they seemed to have the opposite effect. He was practically hyperventilating now, tears streaming down his face.

He should've left him at the hospital, damnit! He didn't know how to deal with traumatized and obviously tortured for a long time people!

Fearing the man might pass out from lack of oxygen or something, he reached out to put a hand on a bony shoulder, "Hey, you gotta slow it down, dude. You're gonna pass out if you keep this up. C'mon, slow breaths, man."

Turns out, people who've been trapped with a sicko for God knows how long is _NOT_ a good idea. The instant Dean's hand touched his shoulder, the man leapt up and off the bed, falling to the floor with a thud. Not wasting any time, he immediately started scrambling to his feet, all the while gasping for air like a fish outta water.

Oxygen deprivation and walking are obviously not friends and soon the struggling man came to this realization as well, stopping his futile efforts and resorting to just curling up on the floor, knees tucked into his chest with his head on his arms.

"Hey, calm down, man. I told you I'm not gonna hurt you. You don't have to be afraid of me."

Slowly advancing towards the shaking lump and sitting in front of him, Dean used his best reassuring voice, the one he'd reserved for his brother only.

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay now. Just slow your breathing, that's it. Good. You're doing good."

He kept up the steady litany of words, as it seemed to be helping the trembling man, his breathing slowing down. Slowly, the head raised up a little from the arms it was resting on, wide eyes peeking out from under the bangs.

Smiling at that, Dean nodded,

"Yeah, that's it. Great job, kid."

Unfurling from his position slowly, the man finally raised his head completely and, though he still looked very nervous and shaken, gave a small, hesitant smile.

Grinning at the small victory, Dean introduced himself.

"Hey. I'm Dean. And you are?"

At the completely innocent and harmless question, the small smile slid away and the kid averted his eyes again, looking down at the floor.

"What's wrong? Did i say something wrong?"

A quick shake of the head.

"Uh-huh. Then tell me your name. I'm tired of calling you 'the man' in my head, dude."

A frantic shake of the head.

"What? You don't wanna tell me?"

An even more frantic shake.

"Then what? You don't remember, is that it?"

A quick, jerky nod.

"Oh. Sucks. I guess we'll just have to give you another name, won't we? After all, I can't keep calling you 'man', now can I?"

No reaction.

"All right, then. So, let's see. How about I suggest a bunch of names and you tell me which one you like. How's that? That okay with you?"

At this, the soon-to-be-named man looked up and gave him a disbelieving look. Then, he gave a hesitant, small nod.

"Okay. Hmm. Lemme think. How about… Bob? Steve? Maybe John? Nah, that doesn't suit you. Let's see, how about…."

So busy he was in his rambling, he didn't notice the figure slithering toward him until a hand tugged at the bottom of his shirt, the small gesture bringing a rush of memories. Memories that he thought he'd buried a long time ago.

Trailing off, he looked down to see the top of a bowed shaggy head. For an instant, he was nine years old again, looking down at his baby brother, his world, rocking him in his lap to put him back to sleep after a nightmare. Another tug had him snapping back to the present, and he felt the fingers of the tugging hand hook into his shirt.

"What is it? You need something?"

The man took a breath, and immediately doubled over with hacking coughs. Wincing with sympathy at the dry coughs, Dean patted the guy's back, relieved when the only reaction was a flinch.

When the coughing fit ended, it left the poor dude shaking like a leaf, gasping for air.

"Here, lemme go get you some water."

Unhooking the hand in his shirt gently, he got up. When he came back with a glass full of water, the guy was still doubled over, though the gasping had lessened marginally. He put a hand on a heaving shoulder, and when watery eyes met his, lifted the glass towards the guy. Holding it with shaking hands, the man drained the glass in one go. Taking back the glass, Dean put it on the bedside table.

When he turned back, the man was still sitting on the floor, though it was more like lounging now, looking completely at home on the cold floor.

"Uh, don't you think the bed would be more comfortable? Or do you really wanna spend the night on the floor?"

Eyes going impossibly wide, the man looked imploringly up at him, pointing a shaky finger at the bed and then at himself.

"Of course, man. Did you really think I was gonna make you stay on the floor?"

The look on the pale face said it all.

"Well, I'm not. You can have the bed. I'll just take the couch."

Uncertainty coloring every step, the man crawled up onto the bed, sitting on the very edge.

Deciding to let it be for now, Dean threw some takeout menus in his lap.

"You must be hungry. We'll just order in. what do you want?"

Taking one of the menus in his hand, a look of utter bewilderment came upon the man's face and he quickly shook his head.

"You don't know?"

Another shake.

"All right. No worries. I'll just order for the both of us, okay? You should have something light, who knows how long it's been since you last ate."

After ordering a double ham and cheese burger for himself and chicken noodle soup from another place for his uninvited guest, Dean settled down into his chair again.

Another coughing overtook the boy, ripping painful moans from his already abused throat. Not wanting to push his luck by touching him again, Dean went to the bathroom to get another glass of water. This one ended pretty quickly, even before Dean started to fill up the glass.

"Hey, we didn't really decide on a name before. And I've run out of names to suggest so, I think I'll just call you 'Kiddo' until we figure out a good name for you. That okay with you?"

He looked expectantly back at the kid, but frowned when something felt off.

The kid had a dazed, confused look on his face. His eyes were glazed over, unfocused. Years of working with all kinds of traumatized people told Dean that the kid was about to collapse. And Dean caught him just before he face planted on the floor, dropping the glass of water on the way. The crash it made on contact with the floor didn't even register in Dean's mind as he spotted blood on the pale face, leaking out from a corner of Kiddo's mouth. Shit, the kid had coughed up blood.

"Hey!", Dean called out a little louder than he had intended. Something out of desperation and an unknown familiarity made him gently pat the boy's head, who had his eyes closed.

"Hey, Kiddo. Come on. Wake up."

An uncomfortable urgency filled Dean's voice. The kid had to be okay. He just had to be…

But he wasn't, apparently. He was just laying listless in Dean's grasp, bloody and hurt in ways unimaginable.

Within seconds, Dean had made up his mind. The kid needed help, professional help. The coughing up blood could mean so many things, not one of them good and Dean wasn't a doctor.

Dean didn't even know why he felt so obligated to do so, but he was going to get whatever help the kid needed and he was going to get it now. And he would personally see to it that the kid would be okay.

* * *

Not once in his life had he had someone who cared about what he wanted. All he was used to was being forced to partake in activities he wanted no part of, receiving hateful glances, derisive comments and harsh beatings. No matter what he did, he always ended disappointing everyone.

But this man, Dean, wasn't like anybody he'd ever met before. He didn't seem like all those friends his father used to invite over. He didn't look at him like he was a toy to be played with and discarded afterwards. He didn't seem even a little bit angry at the things that would have guaranteed a beating from his father or his friends.

There was also something about those eyes. His eyes looked eerily familiar to him, even though he was sure he'd never seen them before in his life.

It wasn't just the eyes, it was the whole picture. This whole scene, Dean sitting cross legged in front of him, babbling random names and whatnot, the whole scenario seemed uncannily familiar to him, despite the fact that he couldn't even begin to recall the last time he'd sat with someone just for a chat. The meetings usually contained very little talk and a lot of pain. What was it about this guy that was so familiar and so…..safe? He'd never felt this safe, this protected with anybody else before. Something about this guy just made him want to trust him. He felt like he didn't have to be afraid of anything as long as he was around.

As the guy was busy rambling off names, his throat decided to let him know exactly how long it'd been since he'd last drank anything. When he tried clearing it, it felt like needles were pricking the inside of his throat. Contemplating for a moment on whether to push his luck by asking for some water or not, he eventually decided to just go with it. After all, what's the worst that could happen? He was already so used to all the different kinds of punishments.

As walking was out of the question, he half crawled half dragged himself over closer to Dean, tugging at his shirt, looking down at the floor. He didn't want to look up and see the barely veiled disgust in Dean's eyes, just like everybody else.

At his tug, the rambling abruptly cut off, but Dean didn't say anything for a while. Feeling the needles in his throat again, he tugged at the shirt again, hooking his fingers at the bottom afterwards. he didn't even know why he did it, it just happened, like it was some buried habit from a long time ago and it felt good to hold on to the first person in his life who hadn't outright rejected him.

Hearing Dean ask him what he wanted, he steeled himself for whatever reaction he'd get –anger or understanding- and took a deep breath, readying himself to ask. And instantly doubled over with hacking coughs. Each cough sent painful twinges down his throat and each heaving breath he got in between the coughs felt like it was grating the inside of his throat, the needles turned into spikes. The coughing also agitated his ribs and the pain magnified tenfold, making his eyes tear up.

He felt Dean rub his back and he flinched, but he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. It just felt so wonderful to be comforted like that after so long.

When the fit finally subsided, leaving him gasping and sputtering, he felt Dean unhook his shaking fingers from around his shirt and heard him get up, saying something about water.

Too busy trying to breathe, he didn't pay much attention until he felt the hand on his shoulder. He looked up and through bleary eyes, saw Dean holding a glass of water towards him. Grabbing it quickly, he hurriedly chugged it down, not knowing when he'd be allowed such a luxury again. After handing the glass back, he moved to get in a more comfortable position on the floor, automatically knowing that that was where he'd be staying. When he turned back though, Dean gave him a puzzled look, asking him if he wanted the bed. He could have the bed? He was never allowed to sit on the bed, let alone sleep on it. But Dean didn't look mad, just confused as he again told him to take the bed. He hesitatingly crawled up on it, perching himself on the very edge.

* * *

What the hell are takeout menus? He didn't know what to do with them and thankfully, Dean didn't seem to be angry at the fact, instead offering to order food for him. And wasn't that another strange thing among all the other unusual things happening today? Since when did people offer him food? Maybe he'd travelled to some alternate universe or something in his sleep.

His thoughts were cut short by another stab of pain in his throat, more intense than all the other aches in his body, making him dissolve into coughs again. He heard Dean moving away again, and he almost reached out to stop him as he passed by him, not wanting him to go away. A blind panic came over him, though he didn't know why. Something was wrong. He knew it. He could feel it. Come to think of it, he could taste it too. The metallic tang on his tongue that he was so used to tasting, be it because of a punch or because of biting his lip too hard. Blood. He was coughing up blood. Surely that can't be good.

The coughing fit ended faster than the last one and when he removed his hand from his mouth, it was covered in blood. He could still feel blood trailing out from the corner of his mouth, leaving a sticky trail down his chin.

Distantly, he heard Dean say something, but he couldn't understand. Dean's voice seemed to be coming from a tunnel, his words mixing up together.

He looked up at Dean's back, wanting to tell him somehow, that he didn't feel good. But all he could do was stare at him. He felt odd, disconnected from his body, like he was floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. Breathing was getting even harder than before, each breath making the pain I his ribs flare up. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, the darkness seemed to be calling out to him. Staying awake was proving to be extremely hard. The last thing he saw before he gave in to the darkness was the image of Dean rushing towards him.

* * *

**_A/N: Don't forget to let me know what you think! _**

**_Until next time._**

**_Piksy out!._**


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: So, here's the next chapter. Not fully satisfied with it. Meh._**

**_A BIG thank you to Roony, reannablue, Souless66, rosebudgirl and for reviewing the last chapter. _**

**_Another Thank you to all the people who added this piece of junk to their alerts. LOL._**

**_All mistakes are mine._**

**_Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine._**

* * *

He hated hospitals with a passion. Being in a hospital served as a reminder that he'd failed at his job, that he hadn't been able to save someone.

The kid had stopped breathing just they'd reached the hospital. His rasped  
breaths trailing off, chest stilling. He'd hoisted him up swiftly  
and half carried, half dragged him inside, yelling for someone to help  
them.  
It had been two hours since Kiddo had been whisked through the  
emergency room doors on a gurney. Two hours and someone had yet to  
tell him what was wrong with his charge.

The first fifteen minutes were spent in the bathroom, scrubbing  
furiously at the dried blood on his hands and encrusted under his  
fingernails. Next 45 minutes were spent alternating between flipping aimlessly  
through a magazine and pacing a hole in the floor.  
Another 30 minutes of bugging the nurses for information and some more  
pacing, and he was left sitting hunched down in the uncomfortable  
waiting room chair, staring at his hands, trying to stop their  
shaking. It had been too close. The damn kid had stopped breathing.

The most frustrating thing was, he didn't even know why he was reacting  
this way; caring so much about a kid he's only known for 4 hours.  
Somehow, in that short time, the kid had wormed his way into the  
corner of his heart that he thought had been locked up. Where his  
brother used to be, still was. That place belonged to his brother and  
no one else. How had this kid gotten there so quickly?

* * *

He felt hands on him, unfamiliar hands, touching him, making the ever

present pain skyrocket.  
Loud voices drifted around him, and he lacked the energy to try to  
understand what was being said. He only heard broken words, making no  
sense to him, increasing his panic. He fought to get away from the  
hands, thrashing and arching his body, but more hands grasped him,  
stilling his movement. The voices got even louder, making the panic  
reach an impossible level, causing his labored breathing to worsen.

He was gasping for air, still continuing with the pointless task of  
getting away from the unwanted touches.  
Whatever energy reserves he had quickly depleted, and he sagged back  
on whatever he'd been laying on, too tired to continue the fight.  
Tears of frustration and helplessness leaked out from behind closed  
lids, and he called out in his mind for the only person who'd shown  
him an ounce of kindness, fingers reaching out to grasp something,  
anything that could tell him that that person was there with him, that  
he wasn't alone. No matter how hard he yearned, cried and prayed, no  
familiar rough voice was heard, and no familiar hand grasped his  
flailing one.

* * *

''Family of Mr. Winchester.''

Dean jerked out of his thoughts at the announcement. He'd checked the  
kid in with his brother's name, incapable of carving out a new identity for him at the time.  
glancing up, he spotted the doctor standing at the doors of the emergency room and  
was there in a flash.  
''Yeah, I'm his brother. How is he? Is he okay?''

* * *

Pain. Agonizing, stabbing pain, taking over his whole body with every

breath he took. And what little air he was able to get in was quickly  
gasped out because of the sheer intensity of the pain. If he thought  
his body hurt before, it was nothing compared to this.  
Slowly prying apart his heavy lids, he was met with the sight of  
another plain white ceiling, this one a little brighter than the one  
he'd woken up to before. Despite knowing he'd be disappointed, he  
looked around, hoping to see a familiar figure there with him. He rolled his  
aching head to the side, but all he saw was an empty chair. He was  
alone. Just like he'd always been. Fighting back tears, he rolled his  
head back to stare at the ceiling again.

The sounds around him finally registered in his hazy mind: the  
constant beeping of a heart monitor coming from somewhere around him.  
Hospital. He was in a hospital. But how? The last thing he remembered was  
sitting on the bed, coughing up a lung. Then, nothing. His memory of  
recent events ended there. How did he get here? What had happened?  
Trying to recall made his already throbbing headache increase tenfold,  
making him cry out breathlessly, a strangled sound escaping his lips. His body arched upwards of it's own accord, causing all the other pain in his  
whole body to go from 'throbbing' to 'excruciating'. Too much pain. It overcame all his senses and  
he gladly gave in to darkness calling him, wanting to get away from  
the agony ripping through his battered body.

* * *

Dean staggered towards the room blindly, his thoughts a jumbled mess,

the doctor's words cutting across the mush and ringing clearly in his  
ears.  
He'd expected the worst; the look on the doctor's face as he'd asked  
him to come to his private office had said it all. So, the diagnosis  
of malnutrition, dehydration, signs of long term abuse and torture,  
severe concussion, cracked ribs, broken wrist, sprained ankle, even  
the ruptured spleen wasn't much of a surprise. It was the next list of  
injuries that rattled him greatly: obvious signs of sexual assault,  
multiple times by multiple people. It had taken sixteen stitches to  
put the kid back together again. Sixteen friggin' stitches.  
He couldn't stay in that damn room after that, and he didn't stop  
running until he'd reached the men's room. Throwing open the door of a  
stall, he quickly went down to his knees, retching violently.

* * *

Slowly walking behind the nurse leading him to the room his 'brother'

was in, shuffling his feet, Dean took the time to compose himself and  
school his expression.  
He managed a poor parody of his game face just as they reached the room.  
The nurse left him alone after a few quick words, none of which  
registered in his jumbled brain. Taking a breath to ready himself, he  
pushed the door open, hurriedly stepping inside before he changed his  
mind. A few more minutes passed before he could bring himself to look  
at the figure in the bed. Wires completely surrounding him, the kid  
looked even paler than before. His face was scrunched up as if in  
pain, even though he was unconscious. Bandages covered his head,  
wrists and ankles, and his right hand was in a cast.

Dropping down into the chair beside the bed, Dean took a couple shaky  
breaths, willing himself to stay and not run away like he wanted.  
Leaning forward, placing his elbows on the bed, he brushed the kid's  
wayward bangs aside and then put his hand at the side of Kiddo's neck,  
deciding to leave it there when he felt him lean into the touch.

* * *

Hands. Touching. Grasping. Pulling. Pushing.

He was back, in that dirty basement, on the stained floor. They were

there, too. He could feel their presence behind him from his crouched  
position. They were laughing at him. He felt fear grip him fiercely.  
They were going to make him do it again. Stuff he didn't, no, never  
wanted to do.  
Distantly, he heard the sound of a belt snapping and breathed a sigh  
of relief; they weren't planning on doing that, at least not now.  
Beatings he could take, he was used to them by now.

The first strike took him by surprise; he wasn't expecting it to begin  
so soon, they usually spent a lot more time mocking him. He  
involuntarily cried out, his back arching backwards, making the  
stinging wound ache even more. He could feel blood pooling out of the whip  
lash on his back, running in tiny rivulets and dripping onto the  
floor.  
The second strike he was more prepared for, only flinching at the pain  
this time.  
How many strikes had it been, now? He'd lost count after 15, the pain  
making logical thought impossible. It didn't look he -whoever he was,  
he didn't even know which one of them was punishing him this time- was  
planning on stopping anytime soon. He'd changed his position long ago,  
on the sixth strike maybe, and now he was laying face down, head  
buried in his arms, trying to muffle his cries. Screaming only made it  
worse, he knew. Despite his efforts to not break down and give them  
the satisfaction, treacherous tears escaped his scrunched eyes.

* * *

Pain. So much pain. His back felt like it was on fire. Were they done?

He wasn't sure. He couldn't think straight and his vision was blurry  
but it seemed like the whipping session was over. He didn't feel any  
more strikes now, but then again, he'd stopped feeling them after a  
while.  
Hands rolled him roughly so that he was laying on his back. It took all he had not to scream. The pressure made his back feel like it  
was on fire, more blood oozing out from the wounds. He immediately  
tried to curl up on his side, but the hands were on him again,  
stopping him and shoving him on his back again, a booted foot coming  
to rest on his chest, making the pressure on his back increase even  
further. He opened his sticky lids, a lot of good that did him; he  
couldn't see clearly, only blurry images. And trying to see made his  
head hurt so, he shut them again and, like he had done many  
times before, prayed silently for the endless pain to stop.

* * *

Suddenly he wasn't there, the horrific scene dissolving and

disappearing before his eyes. He was in a park, someone was pushing  
him on a swing. He could hear somebody laughing, and it took him a  
moment to realize that the sound was coming from him.  
'Higher. Wanna go higher!', he heard himself say, in a voice that  
sounded much, much younger and it was then that he realized that he  
was about four years old.  
'All right, already. But don't come crying to me when you fall down,  
midget.', whoever was pushing him replied, sounding mockingly angry  
and definitely amused. He felt another, harder push and he giggled  
again, soaring much higher on the swing. A moment later, however, the feeling of  
happiness changed to fear, as he felt his hands slipping from the  
chains of the swing because of a particularly enthusiastic chuckle.  
The ground rushed up to meet him and he clenched his eyes shut.

He never felt the impact of hitting the ground though, as a pair of  
arms snatched him mid air, pulling him in towards a warm chest. Tears  
ran down his face, not because he was hurt, no, but because he'd been so scared. He borrowed himself into the person holding him, knowing he  
was safe now, as he'd always been, in the arms of his whole world, his  
big brother.

A hand was rubbing his back now, trying to ease the tremors in his  
body, the familiar gesture making him gasp out another sob.  
'Hey, it's okay, Sammy. You're okay. I got you. It's okay.', the  
litany of reassuring words continued, and eventually succeeded in  
making his cries tamper down. Hiccuping, he opened his eyes and looked  
up through watery eyes. Soft, concerned gaze fell upon him; his big  
brother smiled warmly down at him, his hand never stopping the  
ministrations on his back, and he found himself smiling back through  
the tears still gathered in his eyes.

* * *

He didn't remember dozing off, but he was violently brought back to awareness by a strangled sound emanating from somewhere nearby.

Sitting up from his slouched position quickly, he looked towards the  
bed. The kid was having a nightmare again, his face contorted  
miserably, tears streaming down his face. His lips were moving, but no  
sound came out. He was also slightly moving, as if trying to roll  
over, but something was in the way, tossing him on his back again. The  
chokes turned into sobs, though they were muffled too, like the kid  
was trying not to make too much noise.

Dean put a hand on the damp forehead, rubbing gently, then ran his  
fingers through the sticky hair. The other hand took back it's  
position at the side of the kid's neck, stroking softly.

"Hey, kid. It's okay. It's just a dream. They're not gonna hurt you  
again. It's okay. Settle down. You're okay."

The reassuring words and the gentle touch seemed to be working, as minutes later the scrunched face loosened up, the flow of the tears reduced  
and the choking sounds ceased.

* * *

He'd had that same dream many times before, whenever the punishments

and beatings got too bad and the pain too intolerable. It always  
filled him with a feeling of warmth and safety. The amount of  
compassion and affection radiating from his big brother in that dream  
enveloped him even after he'd woken up and the dream was over.  
The same feeling surrounding him, he slowly regained consciousness. An instant later, however, the security blanket of warmth instantly shattered when he recalled  
what exactly had happened and where he was. More importantly, he  
remembered who he'd been with before, and who wasn't with him anymore.

Reflexively, his fingers flexed again, reaching for something. What  
exactly, he didn't know. He just wanted someone to take him away from  
the pain lacing through his whole body. He wasn't expecting anybody to  
be there with him, like before, when suddenly, a hand was holding his  
in a firm grip. Unlike all the times he'd been touched before, for  
some reason, he didn't want to move his hand out of the gentle grip.  
When he felt Dean -he knew it was him. How, he didn't know. He just  
did- starting to move his hand back, he wrapped his fingers around the  
appendage.

He untangled them the instant he realized what he was  
doing, though, and moved his hand away, not wanting to be shrugged off  
and have it hurt more. A second later, however, it was taken back  
again, fingers entwining with his, a thumb brushing across his knuckles.

Maybe he doesn't know yet. What he was, the things he'd done. It didn't matter that he hadn't really wanted to do all those things, all that mattered was that he'd done them. He was dirty, and he would never be able to get clean. Dean probably didn't know that, that's why he was touching them like that.

He was reluctant to open his eyes, knowing that the moment he did, the  
soft grasp would leave, the reassuring presence vanishing, and he would be left longing and wishing once  
more.  
''Hey. You with me, kid?''

Fate was not on his side. But then again, when had it ever been?

Slowly, he pried his lids apart, groaning as his head began to throb.

''Finally. Dude, thought you were gonna sleep forever. My ass is  
falling asleep from sitting in that damn chair for so long.''

Blinking to clear the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he turned  
shocked eyes towards Dean. Yeah, he'd known that Dean was there, that  
he wasn't alone, had felt the calloused fingers tangled in his, but a  
big part of him had still thought that that was just a dream, a mere illusion  
created because of his desperation and his fear of solitude.

''Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Come on, dude. Don't cry. I didn't mean to...''

The hurriedly spoken words along with the hand stroking the side of  
his neck made him cry even harder, breaking into gasping sobs and  
sniffing miserably.  
''Hey kiddo", softly spoken words resounded in his ears. "Talk to me.  
Come on. Tell me what's wrong.''

He tried to stop, he really did. But he couldn't. No matter how hard  
he tried, he couldn't stop the sobs racking his frames. Trying to talk  
didn't work either, his hitching breath making it impossible to get  
anything out. So he just turned his face away, clenching his eyes shut  
and borrowing into the pillow.  
Hands were on his shoulders, and he felt himself being lifted  
carefully, and pulled forward. Arms wrapped around him, holding him  
tightly. Instantly latching onto Dean, he clutched at the back of the  
leather jacket, his head resting on a broad shoulder. It jarred his ribs and they began to ache again, but he didn't care.

He didn't even know why he was crying so hard, he just couldn't stop.

* * *

**_A/N: Don't forget to let me know what you think! _**

**_Until next time._**


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: This one gave me a lot of trouble. I hope it turned out okay._**

**_A BIG thank you to Souless666, nathy,faithy, reannablue, rosebudgirl, Roony and anon for reviewing the last chapter. Also, Thank you to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites._**

**_All mistakes are mine._**

**_Disclaimer: Not mine._**

* * *

He sat there long after the sobbing had ceased, the shaking had stopped and the frail body had relaxed into him. He told himself it was just to make sure that the kid was really down for the count. It was not because he needed the contact himself, to feel the steady heartbeat against his chest. Nope. Definitely not.

After spending a sufficient time holding the limp body, when he was absolutely sure that the owner had fallen into a deep sleep, he gently laid the boy down. His progress upwards after completing the task, however, was halted by something tugging at the back of his jacket. The kid still had a death grip on it, fists clutching the material fiercely. Debating for a moment, Dean finally decided to just let the kid have the thing. He maneuvered himself out of the jacket awkwardly, spreading it on the kid, who instantly bunched it up in his arms, snuggling into it. A peaceful adorned the tear streaked face. And damn if that didn't make Dean feel good, his lips tugging upwards in an identical smile. Snagging a napkin from the bedside table, he got to work, dabbing gently at the wet trails.

When he was done, he looked the sprawled figure over once more. When he was satisfied that the kid was sleeping soundly, he went out the room. It was time to know exactly how the quacks at this place were handling his brother's case.

After spending ample time scouting every single room in that damn building, he finally spotted the same doctor who'd talked to him before sitting in the cafeteria, nursing a cup of caffeine with his head buried in a book. He swiftly went over and dumped himself in the chair across the man, smacking his hands loudly on the table as he went. Dr. Victor Bennet -as his name tag said- jumped up at the loud noise.

"Jesus. Warn a man before you do something like that."

"And where's the fun in that, doc?"

Huffing at the reply, Victor straightened himself in his chair, expression shifting from annoyed to serious.

"So, what brings you hear, Dean?"

Instantly sobering, Dean sat up from his slouched position, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

"Last time, I stormed out before you could tell me the whole story. I wanna know everything about what you're doing to help Sam."

* * *

Okay, so the talk with the doctor didn't bring much good news. Or anything he hadn't already guessed, at least. IVs of fluids and electrolytes, heavy pain meds because of the pain in the surgery site etcetera etcetera. That part had Dean looking bored, a little irritated but otherwise fine. The next part, however, had been responsible for Dean's dark mood. Apparently, the doctor thought that he spent way too much time with his brother; he needed to leave him alone for some time so he could stop being so dependent. Whatever the nut job said after that was drowned out by the sound of Dean's pounding heart as he bristled with barely restrained anger. He'd quickly high tailed it out of there before he did something he'd regret, slamming his hand down on the table and storming out of the cafeteria.

Who the hell did he think he was, telling him he needed to leave the kid alone. Better yet, how had these idiots reached that conclusion? The kid had only woken up one time, clearly upset because of whatever nightmare he'd had. It must have been something big if it'd made him break down like that. The way he'd clung to Dean when he held him, like he was the only thing holding him together, had tugged at his heart. Now, Dean didn't think of himself as an emotional or sensitive guy, but there was just something about this kid that drew him to him. He felt an overwhelming urge to take care of the kid, to protect him from whatever monsters he was facing. And evidently, the kid trusted him too, no matter how little.

Showed how smart these college graduates were, thinking that he needed to leave the kid, who'd been tortured and abused and kept in solitary confinement for God knows how long. The kid needed someone to be with him more than ever now. He needed to know that he wasn't alone anymore; that someone in this royally fucked up world still gave a damn about him.

Screw those crackpots. Dean had already decided that he wasn't gonna let the kid out of his sight for even a minute.

* * *

The next two days were spent in that chair from hell, keeping vigil by Kiddo's bedside. The kid was on some pretty heavy duty painkillers, so Victor had said, and that was why he hadn't fully woken up since that one time he'd cried his eyes out. There were only brief visits to the outside world, his eyes opening to half mast and staying that way for a minute or two and then slipping shut again. But, the kid was obviously some kind of psychic; whenever Dean so much as put a foot out the door, the heart monitor would start blaring, the kid's breathing picking up. Alarmed, Dean would hurriedly make his way back to that wretched chair, put a hand on the damp forehead or pat his arm lightly or just stroke his hair softly, and poof! Back to normal. Dean was ninety five percent sure that the chair had the shape of his butt imprinted on it because of the amount of time he'd been planted there.

* * *

The third day, he'd been chased out of the hospital by a nurse, Jamie, because he looked like 'death warmed over'. No surprise there, he _had_ been at the hospital for forty eight hours after all, and that damn chair hadn't let him get any decent sleep at all. Add that up with the two days before that he'd spent researching and he was beat. Still, he was reluctant to leave the kid. What if he had another nightmare? What if he had another panic attack because Dean wasn't there? He'd already learnt that the nurses were remarkably inept with dealing with Kiddo, what if they can't handle his attacks?

All his protests had been cut off, though. And after making Jamie swear that she'd give him a call at the first sign that anything was wrong, taking off his leather jacket, laying it on the kid and giving the sweat damped hair one last stroke, he was out the building with Jamie following him till he reached his car, letting him know that he was not to be seen at the hospital until he'd had a shower and eaten a decent meal and had at least six hours of sleep in a place more comfortable than the hospital chair he'd been hogging since he got there.

* * *

It was only when he'd showered, huffing and muttering about meddlesome nurses who had way too much time on their hands, that the various aches and pains in his body made themselves known. His back and neck were twinging uncomfortably, tendrils of pain running up and down his skin, no doubt a souvenir from that pale blue contraption that's been his home for the last few days. Not to mention the awful headache he could pulsing behind his eyes, making it feel like someone with a pickaxe was chipping away at his brain.

Eating the food he'd halfheartedly bought on the way home, he washed down two pain pills and got in bed, setting the alarm on his phone for three hours later. He wasn't planning on being away from the kid a minute longer than he had to.

* * *

The white washed ceiling slowly came into focus, his eyes blinking lethargically to clear away the grit. He felt refreshed; he'd had a good nap, no nightmares jolting him awake and leaving him unable to close his eyes again.

He rolled his head, looking for…someone. When his sluggish mind finally managed to reconcile with his minds, he realized that he was searching for Dean. All the times he'd woken up before, with the exception of the very first time, Dean had been there with him. He always fell back asleep after a few moments because of the meds he was on, so Dean had said, but that was enough time for him to know that Dean was there. Whether it was a hand on his forehead, a pat on his arm or fingers running through his sticky hair, Dean always let him know that he wasn't alone.

This time, however, no sign was given to let him know that Dean was with him. His search proved fruitless, a scan of the whole room revealing that he was alone. But he was there before, right? Other than the time when he'd broken down and sobbed on his shoulder like a little girl, he couldn't clearly recall anything. His memory was blotchy. Had Dean really been there? Or had that been a dream? A figment of his imagination? No. Dean had been there. He was positive of that.

But, then. Where was he now?

A fleeting thought made him jerk. Oh, God. What if they had told him? He was familiar with the medical procedures (way _too_ familiar). Considering the state he'd been brought in, plus the conditions in which Dean had found him, it must have raised a red flag. They must have done all kinds of tests on him. They must have found out what he'd done. And now they'd told Dean. That's why he wasn't there anymore. He probably wanted to be as far away from him as possible. He didn't want to have anything to do with a dirty whore like him. He must hate him now.

That notion stole his breath, his lungs struggling to keep pace with his frantic gasping. He was sorely tempted to burst into tears again. Would that make Dean come back? Would he hold him again like he'd done before? Of course not. Obviously, Dean was glad to finally be away from the likes of him. and even if he did come back –which was highly unlikely- he wouldn't want to lay hands on his tainted skin anyways. And he couldn't blame him; if he were Dean, he'd want to stay away from him too.

"Oh my. Mr. Winchester, what's wrong?"

The feminine voice tinged with alarm made him jump, shrinking his already sparse supply of air.

"Sir, you've got to calm down. Or I'm going to have to sedate you. Calm. Down."

Hearing the words but not really registering them, he desperately looked up at the nurse, trying to convey what he wanted to ask so badly. But talking was definitely out of the question; what with the dwindling stock of air he had plus his hitching sobs. In the end, he resorted to pointing frantically at the chair where Dean had been sitting before, struggling to make his question understood.

"Sir. Calm down. Slow your breaths. I don't want to have to sedate you."

Damnit, the stupid woman wasn't getting it. He shook his head fiercely, tugging at her sleeve with his casted hand and pointing at the chair with his other.

The old woman said something, but his declining strength made it hard to discern what it was. He only caught bits and pieces.

"…Dean? Are…asking…Dean?"

Finally. He nodded hastily, making an effort to actually pay attention and try to comprehend what was being said. Despite all his exertion, he was still only able to hear a few words.

"…sitting…got here…told him….went home."

The nurse was still talking to him, but he stopped trying to listen after the 'went home' part. Dean had gone home. He'd left him and he wasn't coming back. Good for him. Now Dean wouldn't have to put up with his pathetic self any longer.

He felt the nurse move away, the hand that's been resting on his shoulder disappearing. She came back quickly, her lips moving again.

"Sorry….sedate..didn't want…calm…"

The nonsensical broken words made a hell of a lot more sense when he saw her take out a syringe from her front pocket.

He knew he should be reacting, doing something about this. But with his mind in a haze and his limbs frozen, he could only watch, with morbid fascination, as the woman inserted something into his IV. Moments later, he felt his racing heart slow down, breathing becoming less labored and his body ease back into the mattress. Despite his attempts to stay awake, his eyes slowly slid shut.

* * *

Metallica blared from the cell phone. A moment later, a hand snaked out from under the cover and picked up the device. Bleary eyes opened and scanned the screen. Groaning, Dean turned off the alarm, flopping back on the bed only to spring back the instant he realized why that particular alarm had been set in the first place.

Hurriedly, he got –or rather stumbled- out of bed, took the shortest shower of his life and was behind the wheel of his beloved Chevy impala in record time. Reaching the hospital, he leapt out of the car quickly and was on his way to the fourth floor, taking long strides.

Halfway there, his progress was impeded by a hand on his arm. He turned to give whoever had dared to stop him a piece of his mind but shut his mouth when he caught sight of the slightly nervous expression on the usually stern face. It was the same nurse, Jamie, who'd all but thrown him out before.

"I have something to tell you, Dean. It's about your brother."

Any protest he was about to make at the first sentence was cut short at the next part. He could feel dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

"What is it? Did something happen while I was gone?"

Jamie turned her face away, staring at the floor and fidgeting with her shirt. All the signs of a not-good news.

"Yes. Your brother had a severe panic attack. I think that may have been partially my fault. He was already in the throes of an attack when I got to him, but it was a mild one. It worsened when I told him that you'd gone home. He was hyperventilating and I was afraid he might pass out. I tried talking to him, to calm him down but nothing seemed to be working so I had to sedate him as as last option."

"And you couldn't pick up the phone and call me? I told you, the first sign of trouble and you call me damnit!"

At least she had the decency to look remorseful.

"I know and I'm sorry. But after administering the sedative, there really was no point in disturbing you. You needed your rest."

"That's not up to you to decide, lady. You should have called me the moment you saw that he was having an attack."

Turning away from her, he left her standing there resumed his trek, at a much faster pace.

* * *

He was angry. And by that he meant very, very angry. Like, about to murder the next living thing that had the ill fortune to appear in front of him angry. The damn nurse was still walking behind him, heels skittering on the tiled floor. He reached the small room –finally- and it took all he had not to slam the damn door. Only the thought of Kiddo stopped him and he pushed open the door slowly and swiftly went inside the room. Jamie followed him inside too and he closed the door behind her, smoothly. Ignoring the bumbling idiot, he went over to the bed, visibly assessing the limp figure lying on it. The kis had his face slightly turned towards him, hair fanned out over the pillow. Tear tracks were clearly visible on the pale face, making the anger boiling inside him turn into. White-hot, blinding rage.

He turned back towards the woman who obviously had a few loose screws or she wouldn't still be standing there.

"We only want what's best for Sam. You have to listen to us, sir. We are not the enemy, here. We are only trying to help. Sam needs to know that you won't always be there with him. He needs to regain his independence. He needs to function without you, to not have a panic attack whenever you leave the room."

Okay. He'd had enough of this bullshit.

"Back off before I start throwing punches, lady. I don't care what you thought. You were supposed to do your goddamn job and call me! Not poke him with a needle the first chance you got. One thing I asked, and you couldn't even do that right."

* * *

Noise was the first thing that registered into his mind. He groggily forced his eyelids apart. The same white washed ceiling met his foggy vision. And then the memories came back…..fear, hospital, pain, and Dean. 'Dean', his hazy brain gained some focus, as he recollected his thoughts. Dean had left him. He won't be seeing him again. He didn't deserve to see him again.

Despite his hopelessness, the noise around him, though still indiscernible, filled him with warmth. It was comforting, like a gentle caress, like a familiar whisper. More like growl. Wait, what? He struggled to make his dazed brain focus, to understand what that noise was.

"Back off before I start throwing punches, lady. I don't care what you thought. You were supposed to do your goddamn job and call me! Not poke him with a needle the first chance you got. One thing I asked, and you couldn't even do that right."

What? Who was Dean yelling at? And why?

"I know. I already apologized for that, sir. But you have to understand that you have to stop coddling that boy. He's a grown man yet he becomes hysteric the minute you leave his sight. That has to stop. And for that, you have to learn to leave your brother be. At least for a little while."

That was the voice of the nurse. Why was Dean mad at the nurse? And what brother? Did Dean have a brother? Was he at the hospital, too? He wanted to look over, but he couldn't even muster up the energy to try to turn his head. He had to settle for listening intently and trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"Screw that! I don't need to do anything you dickheads want. If I wanna stay with Sammy, I'll damn well stay there. You have no right to order me around like that."

Sammy. That name. Where had he heard that before?

/_It's okay, Sammy. I've got you. It's okay."/_

He physically jerked at the memory. The raised voices immediately cut off. An instant later, Dean's face came into view, a warm hand coming to rest on his forehead.

"Hey, kiddo. You're awake. Heard you put on quite a show before."

The voice, filled with so much rage before, was now dripping with compassion, tone low and soft.

With what seemed like herculean effort, he rolled his head towards the side where Dean was standing, blinking to bring the slightly blurry shape into focus. Dean was looking down at him, his lips curved in a warm smile. Without any conscious thought about the action, he found his lips tugging upwards, imitating the gesture.

* * *

After the demonic nurse Jamie had checked Kiddo's vitals and left (Thank God for small mercies), Dean settled down in the chair, staring at his hands, preparing himself for the chick flick speech he was about to give.

"Hey.", he cleared his throat to get the kid's attention, "I'm sorry about leaving you alone, kiddo."

The eyes looking into his were now adorned with a too-familiar look. Very soft. Very innocent. The memory of an identical pair flashed into his mind and he averted his gaze, trying to complete his lines.

"I am sorry, really, I should've known…"

A hand circled around his wrist, making him trail off. He looked up sharply and saw the kid shaking his head furiously.

"No, kid. It IS my fault. Look what happened to you because of me."

Damn the kid was persistent.

"Okay. Okay. Fine. Just stop with the damn head shaking. It's making me dizzy."

The kid gave up his frantic efforts, half-smiling. Dean leaned back in his chair.

"Good. Now, how about you try and get better so we get the hell out of this stupid place, huh?", he flashed a hopeful smile to the kid.

The next thing he knew, he was transported back to his lost past, his lost home, his lost little brother, as the innocent eyes before him sparkled with the same belief, the soft smile still there, as if reserved only for him and when the kid spoke, he could hear the voice of his little brother.

"Sure, Dean."

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**_A/N: Don't forget to leave a review. J_**

**_Until next time._**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I am SO sorry for the delay. Many things happened in my life and I just lost my inspiration and motivation to write for awhile. And after struggling for, like, a week, I was finally able to write this chapter. I apologize for its lateness and shortness.**

**Also, I'm sure I didn't reply to some of you lovely reviewers of last chapter; that's because I lost track of whom I had replied to and whom I hadn' doesn't mean that I don't appreciate and love your reviews. Please, don't let this stop you from reviewing!**

**A HUGE thanks to Alice Dragou, SplitUchiha, twinklingeyes07, souless666, reannablue, , anon and Roony for reviewing the last chapter!**

**Another, equally huge thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites!**

**All mistakes are mine.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

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** [Flashback.]**

"Wake up, Dean. Wake up!"

The quivering voice tinged with panic pulled him out of his slumber. If it had been anyone else, his reaction would have been to shove away the offending hand on his shoulder, roll over and go back to sleep. However, even before he was fully out of the clutches of sleep, he knew who it was that was interrupting his dreams at this time. He could feel the tremors running through the arm that was attached to the hand placed on his shoulder and without a second thought about his much needed rest or his pleasant dreams, he was awake and aware, staring at his too small, shaggy haired little brother. The kid turned his wide-eyed gaze to him, unshed tears glistening in the blue-green orbs, fingers clutching the sheet from the other bed that was now draped around the slender frame.

Heart dropping at the sight, Dean, though he pretty much knew the answer already, asked, "Bad dream?"

Looking dangerously close to bursting into tears, the brown haired head jerked up and down in a quick nod. Having already expected the cause behind this late night melt-down, Dean had already levered himself into a sitting position. While he normally would have just scooped the kid up in his arms without preamble, Sammy had been reluctant to be held since his fifth birthday a few days ago, insisting that he was a 'big boy' now and that he didn't need to be picked up and carried like a little kid. Not wanting to agitate the kid further, Dean had to wait for his brother to come to him, no matter how hard every second of that delay was for him. A minute later, Sammy let go of the sheet bunched up in his tiny hands and stretched both arms towards him, silently asking to be picked up. Without wasting another moment, Dean quickly grabbed the kid under his armpits and hoisted him up, settling him on his lap. Sam's hands latched on to him fiercely, and he buried his face in Dean's chest, the sobs he'd been holding in breaking free. One hand rubbing Sam's back, the other stroking the chestnut hair softly, Dean rocked back and forth slightly, the usual litany of reassurances escaping from his lips.

"Shh. It's okay, Sammy. I'm here. I gotcha. You're okay kiddo…"

Despite the fact that his leg had fallen asleep from being in the same position for the last fifteen minutes, Dean didn't try to move Sam out of his lap, now did he stop the soothing motions of his hands until he was sure that his brother had calmed down. After what felt like an eternity but was probably minutes, the heaving sobs finally died down, and Sam sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his pajama top.

Pulling back slightly, Dean gave the kid a once over, grimacing at the red nose and puffy eyes. Wiping away the tears on the chubby face, he rested his hand on the back of Sammy's neck.

"You okay now?"

Sam sniffled miserably, the blue-greens turning down, hands picking at a wayward thread on Dean's jeans, before the bowed head nodded.

"Hey. No shutting down on me now, Sammy. We talked about this. You know you can tell me anything."

Watery eyes turned to him again, red-rimmed and bloodshot but filled with so much trust and compassion that it tugged at the corner of Dean's heart that was reserved for his little brother.

"'M okay, De."

Swallowing down the emotion clogging his throat, Dean scooted back till he was leaning against the headboard, bringing Sam to lie beside him, and put an arm around the bony shoulders. Stretching his leg, he bit back a groan at the pins and needles sensation, and turned his head to look at the kid beside him. Sam looked ready to nod off again, eyes drooping, head resting on Dean's shoulder, a peaceful smile adorning his face. Shaking him lightly, Dean sat up a little straighter, and looked at Sam intently.

"No, Sammy. Remember what you promised me last night? You have to tell me about the dream."

"But Deeeaaannn. I don' wanna!"

"No buts, kiddo. This is the third night in a row that you've had a bad dream. Tell me what you saw."

Sam buried his head deeper into the improvised pillow, shaking his head. Sighing, Dean tried again.

"C'mon, Sammy. What did you see?"

Hearing nothing for a few minutes, Dean thought that the kid had succumbed to the tiredness and fallen asleep. But, the silence was broken suddenly by a quiet voice.

"There was a big man. He was really scary. He was looking at me and I was so scared, De. And then the man started walking towards me and said…. He said… He said that… He… He would…"

At this point, the kid dissolved into hiccupping sobs again, more intense than before. Dean hurriedly sat up, pulling the smaller boy closer to him. His hands went back to their allocated positions; one rubbing the heaving back while the other stroked the chocolate-brown hair softly. When these actions didn't seem to be having any affect, Dean pulled the shuddering bundle into his lap, wrapping his arms around him tightly, and resumed his earlier litany of reassrurances.

"Hey, you're safe now, Sammy. I gotcha. The bad man can't get you here. It's okay. Calm down, kiddo…"

Despite the heart-wrenching cries and the soul-shuddering sobs making it extremely hard to talk, Sam continued his tale, speaking in between hiccups.

"He…he said…that he…would…find me…and that…he…he would…k-kill y-y-you…if you g-got…in the w-way… He said that he would kill you Dean!"

The last part came out as a loud wail, after which the kid slumped into him, out-right bawling now. Sparing a thought to pass a very rude and colorful comment to the bastard that had the nerve to scare Sam this badly, Dean started rocking the kid again, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

"It's okay, Sammy. He can't get to me, to _us_, here. We're safe, kiddo. Shh. Just calm down…"

It took a while longer, but soon Dean had a sniffling and hiccupping but not-crying little brother sat in front of him. Cupping Sam's cheek and wiping away the wetness from his face, Dean spoke in a gentle tone.

"Okay now?"

Red-rimmed eyes met his, and Sammy nodded, a small smile ghosting on his lips.

Nodding back, Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and let out a breath.

"Good. Now, I need you to listen to me _very_ carefully okay?"

Another nod.

"That bad man; he can't to you _or_ me, okay? It was just a dream, Sammy. We're both safe."

The kid looked smashed, his whole body screaming out the need for sleep, so Dean had expected him to agree readily and let the matter drop. However, despite all his tiredness and exhaustion, the kid still found enough energy to conduct one of his ever-famous interrogations.

"B-but what if he _is_ real, Dean? What if he gets you? I don' want him to hurt you."

What was he thinking, _of course_ it wouldn't be this easy. Nothing with Sam ever was.

"He won't. Trust me."

Turning away, Sam started picking on the loose thread on Dean's jeans again.

"What if you're wrong?" Sam asked, his voice quiet and tone despondent.

Hating the downcast expression on his brother's face, Dean swiftly came up with a plan to wipe that look away.

"I'm not. You know why?"

A curious look. "Why?"

Grinning widely, Dean shot the kid a wink, and said,

"'Cause I'm the oldest and therefore, I'm always right."

The plan worked, and Sam let out a watery chuckle. _Mission accomplished!_

Giving him a feigned disbelieving look, Dean cried out incredulously,

"What? I am!"

Shaking his head, Sam settled down on the bed, closing his eyes and letting out a huge yawn. Just as Dean thought the kid was out, a soft voice, hoarse from crying and heavy with sleep, penetrated the silence and drifted over to him.

"Sure, Dean."

**[End flashback.]**

* * *

Dean came back to the present with a jolt, and for a moment, he saw his brother, _his Sammy_, laying on the bed, asleep with his head turned towards his big brother, just like it always did, as though the kid could somehow tell exactly where Dean was even in sleep.

"Sammy?"

The soft, almost inaudible whisper escaped his suddenly dry lips without any conscious thought on his part.

"Sorry?"

The equally soft and a little raspy voice brought him completely out of his trip down memory lane and he shook his head to get rid to get rid of the remaining disorientation. Jerking his head, he met the now open albeit slightly glazed, wide, eerily familiar eyes. Feeling a suspicious tingling behind his own eyes, he cleared his throat and tore his gaze away.

"I'm gonna go have a chat with your doc to see how soon we can spring you. You go back to sleep, alright? You look beat." He said as he got up.

As soon as the words "I'm gonna go" left Dean's mouth, the kid's face turned a shade paler, and when Dean stood up, a hand shot out from under the sheet and ensnared his wrist. Halting, he turned back to the small figure, and barely caught a glimpse of blue-green orbs before they shifted their interest to the blanket, the hand hesitantly letting go of its captured prey. Not knowing what that meant, Dean asked, "If you don't want me to go, I can stay till you fall asleep. The doc's not going anywhere."

The kid burrowed deeper into the bed, as if trying to dissolve in it, and shook his head, hands going back to fidgeting with the covers, as the tips of his ears turned red; the kid was obviously embarrassed at his show of –what he considered to be- weakness.

Torn between running from this uncomfortable atmosphere and staying, Dean eventually settled on the second option; something just wouldn't let him leave the kid when he looked so…..broken. Sighing internally, he shuffled back to the contraption of doom and sat down heavily.

"On second thought, I think I'll just wait here. It's about time for the nurse to check up on you anyways. She can page the doc and we'll talk here."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the tense body visibly relaxing, and he knew he'd made the right choice in staying. Just then, something clicked in his mind. The kid had _spoken_ to him. He could talk! Granted, the doc _had _hinted that, when he was informing him about the kid's injuries, that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Kiddo's vocal cords and the muteness was largely self-imposed, most probably a result of the traumatic experience.

The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see nurse Jamie strolling in.

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**A/N: Don't forget to leave me a review!**

**Until Next Time.**


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